Kick Your Blogroll Up The Arse

As instigated by Misssy M of the Misssy M Misssives, I'm going to give my blogroll a kick up the arse.

Misssy, inspired by her own laziness, has decided to venture out into the uncharted (by her) regions of the Blogosphere in search of pastures new, and is encouraging everyone else to follow suit.

Here are the handy copy-and-paste rules:

What you do is you go to four of your favourite blogs and pick a blog from their blogroll that you’ve never visited or commented on.

You then add them to your blogroll or feed, read them for at least a month (by which time there should be no turning back) and give them a chance to invade your life.

Then you duplicate the main part of this post with a note on whose blog you got it from. Stick the four new blogs you are going to read up , tell us briefly why you chose them and whose blogroll they came from.

And if you want, coerce others mercilessly into joining in. Then start reading.

Here are the choices I have made:

1: From Misssy's own blogroll, Gorilla Bananas' The Japing Ape. Looks like I've hit gold from the get-go: magnificently surreal in places, pictures of Britney snogging Madonna and a droll dead pan wit. What more could one expect of the world's leading anthropological ape?

2: Eric is, officially, my Blogfather, so I guess his blogroll would be another good place to look. Chosen completely at random, I've alighted at Quality Weenie. Who is, apparently, an Early Explorer, a Daydreamer and a dog lover. All of which sounds much like myself.

3. Big Rab likes good music, good football (and Dumbarton) and a good dram. Hopefully, his taste in bloggers is as refined as his other tastes. And the fact that Helpless Dancer's blog is called The Endless Note and that he describes himself as a music enthusiast suggests I'm in good company here. The Who, Glasvegas, Dr John and football on the front page is a good start.

4. And finally, from Erica's blog roll, Last One Speaks - "Musings of a complicated woman with simple tastes" - who's intrigued by her Oriental neighbours. Hey, now I'm intrigued too.....

No tagging from me - play along if you want to....

Nae Bather

Recently, I was a passenger on an Aberdeen bus.

Given that I had a hangover and had had only a few hours' sleep, I didn't have the Magic Tune Box pumping its wares into my lugs.

Because I didn't have the Magic Tune Box on, I was subjected to the conversations of the passengers around me.

As the bus passed through the Altens industrial estate, a black man alighted on the bus, a huge white grin greeting the passengers before him.

He was barely in his seat when his phone rang.

It became evident fairly quickly that this latest arrival on the bus was from Nigeria. And that we was deeply religious.

His first word upon answering the phone was "Hallelujah" - he was evidently delighted to hear from the caller, whom it transpired was his pastor from Nigeria, who had returned to Scotland the previous night.

None of this is the reason why the man struck me as unusual - although devout Christians from Nigeria aren't ten-a-penny in Aberdeen.

What struck me was the man's accent. He spoke in a broad, sing-song Nigerian accent - but his speech was littered with words and phrases heard only in the northeast of Scotland.

On several occasions I heard him say "Nae bather" (that's baa-ther, not bay-ther), "bra" (as in good, not over the shoulder boulder holder) and, at the end of his conversation, "cheerio".

I don't know why it's stayed with me since then, but I found the conversation comical, and I only heard half of it. Maybe I was still drunk....

Season 2008/2009: Match 7: Montrose v Dundee United

Friday night - what a shite time of the week for a football match.

Tonight's Forfarshire Cup semi-final between Montrose and Dundee United was originally scheduled for Sunday afternoon, but was moved to this evening at the Premier League club's request - I'm guessing so that the players can go out for a few pints to watch the Scotland match tomorrow.

Anyway, a stiff North Sea breeze kept everyone at Links Park cool, but the football on show was surprisingly good - five goals and a missed penalty ensured no-one was bored for long.

That Montrose won 4-1 doesn't really indicate how much of the play the young and pacy visiting team enjoyed. If David Goodwillie had spent as much time putting the ball in the net as he had mouthing off and girning, he'd have beaten Montrose single-handedly. Plus his penalty on the stroke of half time was honking.

But as it turned out, it was John Baird who stole the show with a hat-trick. Last season, only Celtic's Scott McDonald scored more goals in Scottish football than Baird, and the wee striker looks as though he's now rediscovering that form. In truth, the best goal of the match was Stephen Black's opener, the winger taking the time to control a cross, flick the ball up and lash a half volley over the goalkeeper.

Hopefully we'll see more of this type of football from Montrose in the coming weeks -typically, I missed the first win of the season when I was at Connect last weekend. But they're still unbeaten in the league, so maybe a promotion push is on the cards.

Backwards B

That Was The Week That Was

I'm operating on zombie-esque levels of sleep now what with the combination of Norway, Connect and being back at work today.

Norway was a strange experience - any country where three pizzas costs £75 and a round of drinks more than £100 is a tad too pricey for me. But we managed to see a bit of Stavanger in between the work sessions, and found enough free drink to keep ourselves going without taking out a second mortgage. A party on a traditional sailing ship in the sunshine on Stavanger harbour was the highlight of our time.

Our stay in Stavanger was fairly short, and within a couple of days my merry band was heading to Inveraray for the second Connect festival.

Highlights from the weekend were an incendiary set from Gossip, an all-too-short mid-afternoon slot by Elbow, a nostalgic run through Gomez's debut album and Friday night's headliners Kasabian blasting through their greatest hits.

And lest we forget, Rangers pumped Celtic 4-2 at Parkhead.

All in all, it's been a great week!

North Then South

The week ahead promises to be a busy one, with a spot of jet-setting preceding a weekend of music and pear cider in Argyll.

Tomorrow I fly out to Stavanger with five colleagues for the Offshore North Sea conference. I've never been to Norway before, so the novelty factor alone will make it an interesting trip, although the fact that I have to work while across the North Sea will take a little of the shine off.

Still, it's another corner of the world I'll be seeing for the first time, and it certainly beats three days stuck in the office.

I'm home alone at the moment as I prepare for my trip, Mrs Wife having left Dungroanin' on Thursday bound for Edinburgh and Cardiff, the former to take in some festival shows and the latter to see REM for the first time.

I'll arrive home from Scandinavia late on Wednesday night, and after a day in the office on Thursday, I'll be away to Inveraray for the second Connect Festival, where the bill this year includes Kasabian, Manic Street Preachers, Gomez, Franz Ferdinand and, most exciting of all from my point of view, Elbow.

Last year's festival felt like a well-kept secret, but I would imagine that this year's line-up will mean that a bigger crowd turns out. Still, as long as the weather holds and the pear cider is flowing, I'm sure it'll be another weekend to remember.

Season 2008/2009: Match 6: Montrose v Annan Athletic

Now, four games into the new season, I can confidently predict exactly how many points Montrose will finished the season with: 36.

Four games in, four games drawn. Montrose were so determined not to win this one that they smacked a penalty against the post instead of scoring and had a central midfielder sent off for swinging an elbow 10 minutes from time.

Annan looked dangerous, as befitted a team top of the league three games into their debut season at this level. They brought with them a vocal fanbase, and two flags that can be seen in the photograph above. I thought that the stewards were going to ask them to take the flags down, or stop climbing on a wall that generally doesn't look 100% safe, but they were merely asking that travelling Borders support move the flags higher so that they didn't cover the advertising hoardings.

Once again, Montrose's inability to kill games off when ahead cost them. In all four league matches this season, they've taken the lead. They've drawn all four.

The referee was useless. But that goes without saying in the Scottish Third Division.

Today's matchday programme provided some pre-match entertainment, with star striker John Baird taking part in the Players' Quick Eleven feature - 11 questions to help the fans understand the man beneath the shirt. I repeat a few of Baird's answers here verbatim with no comment other than it's just as well he can play football.

Q: What is your favourite cheese?

Baird: Tesco

Q: What is your favourite book?

Baird: Paolo Di Canio

Q: What players do you admire and respect in the division (ie Scottish League Division Three)?

Baird: Carlos Tevez

No Slow Train Coming

At some point yesterday afternoon, there was a landslide that covered a section of the East Coast Mainline between Stonehaven and Montrose.

As I understand things, ScotRail became aware of the problem around 4pm.

I arrived at Aberdeen railway station at 4.30pm, intending to catch my usual 4.41pm train home to Montrose. I was allowed to board the train as normal, and as usual it was fairly close to being full, with only a few seats free.

No announcement was made to tell passengers there was a delay until 4.50pm, and at that point we were informed that this was simply a delay.

At around 5.30pm we were told to get off the train as substitute buses would be running from Dundee onwards, and that separate buses would transfer passengers to Stonehaven, Montrose and Arbroath as required.

The announcements made over the station tannoy system were inaudible, leaving hundreds of passengers milling around the station concourse, joined each minute by new arrivals unaware of the problems.

Finally, all passengers bound for Edinburgh and Glasgow were urged to move outside (into the pishing rain) to queue for substitute buses. Everyone else was informed they should wait in the station.

Having waited until 6.30pm, I went out to seek further information. I asked a ScotRail employee whether any buses were running to Montrose, to be told "Oh, it's just left".

No announcement was made to the scores of passengers inside the station. There were still hundreds of people queuing on Guild Street in the rain, waiting for buses they were assured were "on the way".

I decided to stay in the queue, in case another Montrose-bound bus should appear unnanounced. While waiting, I got talking to the three people beside me, who were trying to get to Edinburgh.

At around 7.45pm, one of the women I was talking to set off to find more information. She returned around 8pm to inform me that a member of ScotRail staff was gathering a group of Montrose-bound passengers to travel in a taxi.

Thankfully, I managed to grab a space in the taxi, which left Aberdeen at 8pm, three-and-a-half hours after I had first arrived at the station, and I finally got home just after 9pm.

It is safe to say that I have never had the misfortune to deal with a company as disorganised, poorly managed and generally useless as ScotRail. At least three members of staff in Aberdeen station were truculent, moody and sarcastic when asked for information.

If the company is stripped of its operator's licence, it won't be a moment too soon.

So Has She

Yesterday's post on Rachel Hylton reminded me of the only other TV talent show singer who's blown me away - Fantasia Barrino.

I first saw this performance on Australian television in 2004, and I thought it was sensational. But I don't think I've heard anything from Ms Barrino since then.

She's Got It

I'm not generally a fan of the Popstars/Pop Idol/X Factor style of show, but very occasionally a contestant will come along that really does come across as a genuine stellar talent.

Rachel Hylton is one of those incredible few:



Am I the only one who thinks that's actually better than Amy Winehouse's version?

My Favourite Albums: Number 1: The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses

There are some records that define certain years for me - Oasis' Definitely Maybe was the soundtrack to 1996 for me, despite being two years old at that point.

There are records that I heard early on in my musical development, and which acted as stepping stones into new worlds - an appreciation of Paul Weller's solo work acted as a starting point for my forays into punk, soul and r&b.

And there are records that have had such a cultural impact that they are inescapable, and are as much a part of living in Britain as the Queen, Coronation Street and Tetley's tea.

But my favourite album is none of these. It doesn't define any specific point in my life, having remained a constant source of joy since the first time I heard it. It never encouraged me to find out more about any other bands, primarily because I was already well versed in the works of The Beatles, The Jam and The Rolling Stones by the time I came to The Stone Roses.

And while The Stone Roses is most definitely a British album - and Her Majesty is the inspiration for Elizabeth My Dear - the Roses never reached the heights scaled by Oasis and Blur in their wake.

But, since the age of 18, I've been unmoved in my assertion that The Stone Roses' debut album is the greatest ever made. Given that I regard The Beatles as the greatest band ever, it's a bold statement.

I was only nine when the album was released in 1989, and I didn't really discover it until it was almost 10 years old. It was actually the third Roses album I acquired, having received a copy of the compilation The Complete Stone Roses as a birthday present and purchased a second-hand copy of Second Coming from the magnificent Dundee institution that is Groucho's.

The Stone Roses grabbed me immediately. The opening bass rumble and nimble finger-picking of I Wanna Be Adored's intro sets the scene, and even Ian Brown's foghorn voice can't impact on vintage pre-Britpop psychedelia.

I could attempt to explain why each of the songs on the album is a classic (with the possible exception of Don't Stop - just Waterfall played backwards with new lyrics whispered over the top), or why the whole package transcends the sum of its parts.

But I can't, and I won't attempt to. All I can really do is urge you all to buy a copy of the album and give it a listen. And I'll leave you with the album's final track, the euphoric, climactic eight-minute burst that is I Am The Resurrection.

Groanin' Jock's Chinglish Adventures Volume IV: Let Me Care You

It's been a while since I wowed both of my regular readers with an example of Chinglish, the exciting language that bolts English words together in ways no-one from an English-speaking country (or Scotland) would ever have thought possible.

Today's example is from the giant panda enclosure at Shanghai Zoo. It's nice that the panda in question wants to care me, just like he cares himself, as we're the same age. And he gets to spend all day eating bamboo and picking his arse. I can only aspire to that kind of career.

For further examples of Groanin Jock's Chinglish Adventures, take a look here. And here. Oh, and here as well.

Broken Household Appliance National Forest

Is nothing built to last any more?

In the past few days, the dishwasher at Dungroanin' has packed in, and this afternoon the Jockmobile refused to start after a hard day of sitting doing nothing in the Montrose railway station car park.

The car I can understand - it does a lot of miles and sheer wear and tear over its seven-year life span is obviously going to take its toll eventually. Hopefully replacement of the starter motor will be quick and comparitively cheap.

But the dishwasher is more irritating. I'm fairly certain it was installed when the house was built, which is around three years ago. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I expect a £450 piece of equipment to last more than three years.

The same can be said of MP3 players - I'm now on my third Magic Tune Box, and I only acquired my first in late 2004.

We've become an unnecessarily wasteful society, where nothing is built for the long-term. If something breaks, it can often be cheaper to replace it than repair it.

In what world does that make sense?

Season 2008/2009: Match 5: Montrose v Berwick Rangers

Scottish football can be a sadistic bitch.

It's rarely inspiring, and seldom drags itself beyond the the barest levels of entertainment.

In fairness, I expected little from Saturday's matches, given that I'd been out the night before, finally leaving an Aberdeen night club when the house lights were switched on at 3am.

I was up again at 9am, catching a train home in time to be parked on the couch for Falkirk v Rangers, the opening match from the SPL.

Having watched Rangers sleepwalk their way to an undeserved victory over a far livelier Falkirk side, I set off to my fifth live match of the season, in the vain hope that Montrose would defeat Berwick to record their first win of the season.

It all started so well for the home side, Chris McLeod rising unchallenged to head home Stephen Black's free kick in the seventh minute.

But the expected flood never came. Montrose dominated the match, but couldn't find a second. And sure enough, the visitors equalised with six minutes remaining, David Grant poking the ball over the line following a goalmouth scramble.

It was harsh on Montrose, who have now taken just two points from their opening two matches - hardly the form expected of title favourites.

I now demand a steward's inquiry - Berwick shouldn't even be in the SCOTTISH Football League - unless the borders have shifted slightly....

It's Worth It

A week ago, I was ready to hang up my football boots, having endured one on-pitch hiding too many.

With the works team a man short last night, I pulled on the kit once again.

And found a different world. We played well from start to finish, controlling the tempo of an ill-tempered match in which the tackles were occasionally high and late, and in which at least two players were lucky to stay on the pitch after a heated exchange that came close to blows.

I came off the pitch having suffered no new inuries and felt no ill effects from the previous knocks. I even scored as we recorded a 9-6 win in what amounted to a six-pointer.

A week's a long time in football.

Season 2008/2009: Match 4: Montrose v Cowdenbeath

Four games into my live football season. Just four.

Montrose have only played three competitive matches this season. Just three.

Rangers have only played two competitive matches this season. Just two.

Tonight, Montrose were knocked out of their second cup, and we're only five days into August.

Rangers were sent out of Europe with barely a whimper.

Football, so often my source of unbridled joy, doesn't feel much fun at the moment.

I really don't want to talk about Rangers any more at the moment, so I'll concentrate on the match I attended this evening, Montrose's CIS Cup First Round tie with the Blue Brazil (who, conversely, played like a yellow Wimbeldon.)

Aside from a faint glimmers in the second half, Montrose never looked like winning this match. A sixth minute header saw them fall behind and an 81st minute, 30-yard free kick finished the job.

Montrose started in a 4-5-1 formation, attempting to utilise Paul Stewart's pace wide on the right. The plan didn't work, with the diminutive John Baird given little to work with up front on his own.

Later, with Stewart pushed up, Montrose looked livelier, but Cowdenbeath never looked truly flustered.

Montrose's captain, central midfielder Keith Gibson, toiled in the middle of the park. Though big, forceful and determined, he lacks both pace and subtlety, and was frequently his own worst enemy.

Pass marks for the home side could only justifiably be awarded to Stewart and to defender Jamie Buchan, one of the few players on the artificial pitch who genuinely looked like a footballer.

Along with my fellow press corps members, I was asked to vote for the official man of the match. I was the only one to vote for a Montrose player, picking Jamie Buchan. But the award went to former Scottish youth international Joe Mbu, seen below receiving his award.

So, four matches in and I've not seen a Montrose win yet - in fact, Montrose haven't won since the end of last season. 2008/2009 could prove to be a long 10 months of football.

Universal

Mrs Wife and I watched the movie Cocoon last night.

It's the first time I'd seen the movie in what must be at least 10 years, but is probably considerably more.

There's something about family-friendly American movies from the 1980s that I just can't get enough of, and I've never quite been able to place my finger on it.

Maybe its the cheesy 80s pop that blares from every car stereo - a curious blend of pop hooks, synths and watered-down faux hip-hop beats.

Perhaps its the fashions that taste forgot, brought back into our sitting rooms as though from another world.

But most of all, I think it's the simplicity of the sets and the action. No CGI-assisted action; no computer animation; just wholesome family fun in a world before Pixar.

The list of those films is, I think, nearly inexhaustible. In addition to Cocoon, the films I'm thinking of are Batteries Not Included, Jaws, TeenWolf, Ferris Bueller's Day Off (perhaps not quite so family friendly), Home Alone, The Goonies, Weird Science, The Karate Kid and Back To TheFuture.

I was born in 1980 and therefore didn't hit my teenage years until the mid-1990s. So I grew up with those family films. And they showed a different world, which although broadly similar to mid-1980s Scotland, still looked alien to me eyes. America was a land where it never seemed to rain, where the toys and sweeties were different from those available on this side of the Atlantic and where aliens could feasibly be found living in your garage.

I doubt we'll ever see their simple likes again.

Is It Worth It?

At the age of 28, I should be at the peak of my physical and footballing prowess.

But another spanking in the Aberdeen Oil League last night has made a number of us aware that there's little enjoyment in paying almost £30 a month to take a weekly shoeing on the Aberdeen astroturf.

My recent footballing schedule has left me nursing the following injuries: tight calf muscles on both legs that feel as though they'll ping if I attempt anything strenuous like standing up or walking; a sprained wrist from an ill-advised spell in goals a while back; dodgy knees and ankles that have haunted me throughout more than 18 years of football; and what I now suspect may be a fractured bone in my foot from an 11-a-side match more than a month ago.

To be frank, I've been in better shape. And now I'm beginning to weigh up whether dragging my sorry carcass through the hard graft of competitive football is truly worth it.

French Terror Alerts

Alastair's Heart Monitor

It's always sad when a fellow blogger hangs up the keyboard and consigns their online missives to history.

But when the blogger bidding the blogosphere farewell is one of the most gifted amongst us, it's a doubly hard blow.

Alastair of Alastair's Heart Monitor is, for understandable reasons, about to call time on what, for me, could be the greatest blog out there.

No other site on the internet has ever held my attention on such a wide range of subjects - from the frequently bizarre world of Scottish football to rare Beatles tracks; from the dangerously barmy natives of North America to the spectacularly entertaining world of the libel courts.

Through Alastair's site, I've often been sent out into the wider world in search of further information - rare soul tracks, classic novels and vintage football footage.

While you still have the chance, I'd urge you all to visit Alastair's site, trawl through his archives and re-emerge into the world around you hours later, a plethora of new knowledge fighting for space in your brain.

With Friends Like These...

...who need enemies?

Weather Or Not

The weather here in deepest, darkest Jockshire can't seem to make its mind up at the moment.

Saturday, which saw Mrs Wife and I host a barbecue for around 50 people, was scorching, and several of those present, myself included, ended the day a more lurid pink than they had started it.

But by the next morning, the debris in the garden was soaked by a constant, core-soaking drizzle that never seemed to depart.

This morning, after Mrs Wife and I made it to bed around midnight following a late evening showing of The Dark Knight, we were awoken around 6am by rumbles of thunder that were, well, thunderous.

And now Dungroanin' is shrouded in a mist that has rolled in, presumably from the North Sea.

Hasn't anyone told the weather that it's meant to be mid-summer?

Dylan

Have you got any sweeties?

My Life In Movies

As seen over at Inchy's site - the My Life In Movies meme.

The premise is simple - pick your favourite movie from every year since you were born.

My list is below - feel free to offer your thoughts. As for tagging further players, everyone can play along if they want to.

1980 - The Empire Strikes Back

1981 - Raiders of the Lost Ark

1982 - ET

1983 - Scarface/Return of the Jedi (Tie)

1984 - The Terminator

1985 - Back To The Future

1986 - Aliens

1987 - Full Metal Jacket

1988 - A Fish Called Wanda

1989 - Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade

1990 - Goodfellas

1991 - Terminator 2

1992 - Reservoir Dogs

1993 - Groundhog Day

1994 - Forrest Gump/Pulp Fiction (Tie)

1995 - The Usual Suspects (Also nominated - Se7en, Casino)

1996 - Trainspotting

1997 - LA Confidential

1998 - The Big Lebowski

1999 - Fight Club

2000 - Memento

2001 - Donnie Darko

2002 - The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers

2003 - Kill Bill: Volume 1

2004 - Kill Bill: Volume 2

2005 - The Revenge of The Sith

2006 - Casino Royale

2007 - No Country For Old Men

2008 - The Dark Knight (I've not actually seen it yet, but it looks AWESOME)

Preparations

This Saturday, Mrs Wife and I are hosting a barbecue.

We did the same last year, and a decent crowd turned out for what eventually amounted to 12 hours of chargrilled meat and cold beer-based fun.

Word has obviously spread, as this year's sequel looks as though it's going to attract 50 hungry punters.

So you'll have to excuse me while I go and mow the carpet, hoover the lawn, marinade the barbecue and scrub the chicken.

Or something like that anyway.

Season 2008/2009: Match 3: Montrose v Brechin City

Local derbies are known for being tempestuous affairs. But pre-season matches are known for being lacklustre and meaningless.

So where does that leave a pre-season friendly between a pair of near neighbours?

The answer from Montrose's final warm-up match ahead of the big kick-off is somewhere in the middle.

Neither side gave it their all, but the encounter was intriguing nonetheless.

Montrose opened the scoring through a well-taken diving finish from Roddy Hunter, who looked more than capable of assuming the goalscoring duties in place of John Baird, who started on the bench.

But the better finish probably came at the other end, with Steven Thomson expertly flicking the ball into the bottom corner of the net, leaving the goalkeeper helpless.

Unfortunately, he achieved the feat while attempting to defend a cross, and scored the first own goal I've seen this season.

The goals aside, the match was notable for a strong performance from Brechin's new signing Ian Nimmo in midfield - he looks as though he could make a difference to a side that could feasibly finish anywhere between bottom and top of their division in the coming season.

Pepper

Leave me alone - can't you see I'm wearing my dinner?

Don't Count On Me

Since our employer moved office from the outskirts of Aberdeen's city centre to bang in the middle, myself and a few of my colleagues have begun decamping to the pub on the occasional lunchtime.

This activity might normally be frowned upon, but we are only drinking Coke as we engage ourselves in games of darts to pass the mid-afternoon break.

Our new pastime has revealed two things to me: that I'm not as bad at darts as I thought I would be; and that I'm considerably worse at mental arithmetic than I thought I was.

I had a fairly comfortable relationship with maths through most of my years at school. In fact, up until my fourth year at high school, I pretty much breezed through maths without much hassle.

Laziness got the better of me during that fourth year, but I bucked up my act enough to get the top grade in that year's Standard Grade exam. And that's where the problem started.

Bouyed by false confidence after seeing the words "Mathematics: 1" on my certificate, I decided to enrol on the Higher mathematic course. Which I quickly found was Higher in all respects.

To this day, I have no idea what possible use vectors, algorithms and Calculus can serve in the real world. Arithmetic and fractions I can understand. But proper mathematics makes as much sense to me as Arabic.

Unsurprisingly, I failed Higher maths. And in the intervening 11 years, I've never once been inclined to renew my relationship with the subject.

Apart from when subtracting 54 from 501 in a busy harbour pub.

God Is A Concept

Following my recent change from car-bound commuter drone to train-bound commuter drone, I've found myself given far more time to read books, and as a result I'm getting through an average of a book a week.

Yesterday, I finished The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. It's a book that's currently in vogue, and it seems to be striking a chord with a sizeable portion of society (in Britain at least).

I don't believe in God. I find the very idea that there's a big bearded dude living in the sky and watching over us pretty laughable, when no evidence points towards His existence. The belief that He is supposed to have created the universe a few thousand years ago, in the face of huge amounts of evidence to the contrary, has never sat right with me, ever since I was old enough to form any views on the subject.

By all means, believe what you want to believe. If you think that God, Jesus, Allah, Buddah, Zeus, Thor or the Flying Spaghetti Monster exists, feel free. But don't feel for a second that your world view is the only truth, or that it should be taught as fact in schools.

I'm not against the Bible being examined as a historical document, and its stories discussed - but in the same way that Greek, Roman, Norse or Egyptian myths and legends are studied - as a means of learning how primitive people understood the world around them.

But if you believe that the Bible is literally the word of God, you're living in cloud cuckoo land.

Perhaps even more inexcusable than the teaching of religion in schools is the weight of influence that religion has on society and politics. Church leaders are still afforded the opportunity to speak directly to the government and to have a say on key policies.

Why? Is it the sheer weight of numbers? According to the 2001 census, less than half of British people believe in a God, yet about 72% told the census that they were Christian. It is believed that 66% of the population have no actual connection to any religion or church, despite what they tend to write down on official forms.

Around 80% of the British population, or 50 million people, are adults old enough to choose their own religion and have a say on which shower of useless bastards runs the country. If less than half of them is Christian, that leaves us with, at most, 25 million people, and probably less. So far, so acceptable. Connected groups of people should have political representation. But the fact that these people share a belief in a non-existant God shouldn't count for more than the societies they live in, their political views and their socio-political needs and wants.

And grouping people together, then giving them the ear of government, because of a shared belief in something is a laughable notion anyway. To date, 4.3 million people have bought Oasis' second album (What's The Story) Morning Glory. Should the 4.3 million people be represented in government due to their sheer weight of numbers? Around 8 million people regularly watch EastEnders - shouldn't their views as a group be conveyed to Gordon Brown?

It's a tad unfortunate that many of this country's, and indeed the world's, finest buildings and artworks were built by and are owned by religious institutions. Hypocritically, Mrs Wife and I were married in a church, by a Church of Scotland minister. But my reasoning was that it was preferable to marry in a picturesque church than a hotel function suite, and to be married by a man I knew better as a member of a local sports club and from social events than I did as minister, rather than by a civil servant who was a stranger to me.

I don't think my argument is coming out in a terribly coherent fashion - Richard Dawkins argues his points with much greater clarity and with more authority than I could ever muster. I heartily recommend The God Delusion to all who feel that God is maybe about as likely to exist as virgin birth, walking on water and raising the dead. And I also recommend checking out Dawkins' website.

Happiness Is....

.... A fresh cardboard box at the end of a busy afternoon in the garden.

Season 2008/2009: Match 2: Montrose v St Johnstone

As a Montrose season ticket holder, I spend most of my football spectating being "entertained" by shite like Forfar and Dumbarton (apologies to Rab and The Tomahawk Kid).

But pre-season tends to bring more illustrious opposition looking for an easy warm-up match against lesser opponents, as has been the case in the past week, when both Dundee and St Johnstone have rolled onto Links Park's plastic pitch.

Dundee's squad was notable for including Rab Douglas, a former Celtic goalkeeper and Scotland international. And St Johnstone's side also included a couple of big names, former Dundee United striker Collin Samuel and erstwhile Chelsea midfielder Jody Morris.

Samuel was hopeless. He looked like he could barely stand up for most the of the match, spending most of it tripping over his own feet and shanking the ball out of play. If St Johnstone are pinning their hopes on him rattling in the goals that will take them back to the Premier League, they're in trouble.

Meanwhile, Morris is one of those players it's easy to dislike. Along with his besht mate John Terry, he was infamously spotted abusing American tourists at Heathrow Airport within hours of the collapse of the Twin Towers; he was previously arrested for sexual assault, though the charges were later dropped; and he received a two-year suspended jail sentence for drunk-driving the wrong way down a one-way street.

Curiously, Morris' off-field profile has grown as his career has floundered - he's moved from Chelsea and the fringes of the England squad to Leeds, Rotherham and Millwall, and now finds himself slumming it in the second tier of Scottish football.

It's very rare that players with European Cup Winners Cup and FA Cup winners medals turn up at Links Park. Did Morris look exceptional against a team containing part-time players who spend more time sawing wood than playing football?

Nope. Once again, it was Montrose's John Baird who caught the eye, the young striker opening the scoring with an audacious 35-yard lob quarter of an hour into the match.

St Johnstone were undeniably the better side for 70-odd minutes, but that is to be expected, given that they're a full-time side. Less expected was the final score of 1-1, a testament to a solid backline that Montrose will hope can push them to promotion in the coming season.

Media Relations The Old-Fashioned Way

I never tire of watching Walter Smith tearing Chick Young a new one:

Season 2008/2009: Match 1: Montrose v Dundee

And so, just over a week after Euro 2008 ended, the Scottish season is underway.

Last night, I attended the Montrose v Dundee friendly match at Links Park, watching the visitors record a 3-0 win.

Dundee lined up with Rab Douglas back in goals, more than ten years after he made his debut for the Dens Park side, his whole Celtic and Scotland careers having passed in the interim.

We don't often see former Scotland internationals strutting their stuff on Montrose's plastic pitch, but Douglas had little to do - which is probably just as well, given how inauspicious his later Celtic and Scotland performances were. It wouldn't do to concede goals to lower level opposition before a new contract's even been agreed.

Aside from Douglas' return to Scottish football, the match was notable for a couple of decent finishes for Dundee's second and third goals - a 25-yard drive from Paul McHale and a sweet finish from Mikael Antoine-Courier. And for the fact that, even in July, it was freezing at the football.

Which bodes well for January....

Pee-Ah Pee-Ah Pee-Ah-No

Yesterday's post mentioned the Video Games Live concert that Mrs Wife and I went to in Glasgow.

This guy performed this song on a grand piano that night - and did it blindfolded.

Watch in awe.

Soy Un Perdedor

I'm quite concerned that, in the past couple of weeks, my behaviour has shown signs that I am becoming more geeky as time wears on and I edge closer to 30.

I've written in previous posts that I feel the need to have my vast CD collection stored in alphabetical order - but I'd argue that that is chiefly through necessity, otherwise how would I find the CD I was looking for from a library that now runs into the thousands?

And I've never hidden my love of StarWars, Thundercats, He-Man and Transformers - but again, in my defence, I grew up watching the shows and movies and playing with the toys.

But in the past fortnight, I seem to have slipped further towards the point of no return in my geekdom.

The first indicator was the concert that Mrs Wife and I attended in Glasgow two weeks ago - Video Games Live. Held at the Royal Concert Hall, the event saw the Royal Scottish National Orchestra perform music from video games, while a video screen showed footage from the games.

I never thought I'd be in a room with a full orchestra playing the theme tunes from Super Mario World, Sonic The Hedgehog and Tetris, but it was a fantastic concert. Although the audience was formed primarily from men in their mid twenties, many of them wearing video game-related garb.

So, does that count as geeky? Possibly, but it may be redeemed by the novelty of the concert and the fact that the venue and performers are undeniably of the highest standard.

But the next day, with time to kill and most of Glasgow's shops exhausted of entertainment, I took the next step towards giving in completely to my inner geek. I visited Forbidden Planet, the chain of stores that sells, as its primary range of products, comic books (or graphic novels as geeks who pretend they don't read comics call them).

Initially, I only went in for a look and to kill some time. But Mrs Wife offered to buy me something as a present, and I ended up coming out with the "graphic novels" (comic books) of The Dark Knight Returns and The Dark Knight Strikes Again. Which meant that, at the age of 28, I could be seen sitting on a train later that afternoon reading Batman comics.

Is that a step too far towards geekiness?

The third incident that suggest I may be on an irreversible spiral towards becoming a regular contributor to sci-fi forums came last night, when Mrs Wife, myself and some of my work colleagues attended a performance of Charles Ross' One Man StarWars Trilogy show.

Ross does exactly what the title suggests - single-handedly re-enacting the original StarWars trilogy. Without props. In an hour.

Obviously, a good grasp of the plot of the movies is a pretty essential requirement if you're going to understand One Man StarWars. And, from first glance, it seemed that the audience fitted the bill.

Geeky? Perhaps. But the show was highly amusing, and performed with an obvious affection for the films.

So now, having laid all this before you, I have to ask - am I an irrepairable geek?

The Warrior

Sometimes it's better just to stay retired....

Presidential Sweet

As seen over at Big Stupid Tommy's:

1. Take out your iPod (or Zune, I guess...really, who buys a Zune?)

2. Press shuffle songs.

3. Answer the following:
a) How many songs before you come to one that would absolutely disqualify you from being President?
b) What is that song?

4. Leave your answers.

There are a number of things that disqualify me from ever being President of the United States of America:

1. I'm a member of neither the Republican nor Democrat political parties.

2. I don't understand how the US political system works.

3. I don't believe in God, and I'm quite vocal about it.

4. I'm not American.

But hey, supposing that for a moment (or 10 years at least) I was a member of one of the major American political parties, I understood what senate, primaries and the House of Representatives are, I believed in Him and I was a US citizen born and raised on the other side of the Atlantic.

I'm on a private jet with a few reporters, and my iPod is on shuffle in the background. How many songs in would we be before my campaign was in tatters?

Incredibly, on this play, probably one.

First up, Out Of Space by The Prodigy. From their proper rave days. The same period when they released a song entitled Their Law. The opening line of which is "Fuck 'em, and their law".

Out Of Space itself isn't quite as anti-office as that, but I'm guessing it wouldn't endear me to the bible belt voters.

My fellow (non)countrymen, it is with a heavy heart that I have to declare myself out of the 2008 US presidential race, thanks to Liam Howlett and Keith Flint.

(By the by, if The Prodigy didn't kill my election dream, the fifth track shuffled up, Finders Fuckers by Isa and The Filthy Tongues, probably would.)

Whae's Like Us? Revisited

A good while back, I posted a great Scottish put-down that I'd received by email.

Today, I received another big pile of them from a friend, and felt that the Blogosphere should be allowed to share them - these are not for the easily offended.

She had a fanny like a stab wound in a gorilla's back

Look's like she's been dooking for apples in a chip pan

Had more hands up her than Sooty

She's got a face like a dog lickin' pish affa nettle

It looks like she's been set on fire and put out with a golf club

She's got a face that could make an onion cry

I wouldn't ride her into battle

Everyone has a right to be ugly, but she abuses the privilege

Mair chins than a Chinese phone book

She smells like an alkies carpet

She has seen more japseyes than an oriental optician

It's like shaggin a pail of water

It's like shaggin the sleeve off a wizard's cloak

She's killed more cocks than a fowl butcher

Fanny like a ripped out fireplace

Face like a sand blasted tomato

Arse like a bag of washing

She sweats like a dog in a Chinese restaurant

She's seen more helmets than Hitler

Face like a stuntman's knee

She's got a fanny like a badly packed kebab

Like opening the window and shagging the night

She's seen more cockends than weekends

I left her with a face like a painter's radio

Fanny like a clown's pocket

Fanny like a hippo's yawn

Fanny like a burst couch

She's that ugly not even a sniper would take her out

More pricks than a second hand dartboard

Face like a blind joiner's thumb

She's done more lengths than Duncan Goodhew

She's been shot over more times than Sarajevo

Even the tide wouldn't take her out

Got more finger prints on her than Scotland Yard

Handled more balls than Dino Zoff

Pish flaps like John Wayne's saddle bags

She had a pair of flaps on her like a gutted trout

A face like she's been ram raiding on a scooter

She's had more seamen than Saltcoats

She's seen more stiffs than Quincy

Cocked more times than Elmer Fudd's shotgun

Viva

Bloody Germans.

Eight final appearances since I was born, three trophies lifted in that time.

Before the tournament, played just across the border in Austria and Switzerland, I thought they had to be firm favourites to lift the Henri Delaunay Trophy. So much so that I stuck a tenner on them.

Coupled with that, my Euro 2008 Dream Team included seven Germans in it going into the final.

Now that the dust has settled, I'm annoyed that Germany couldn't raise their game for the final, even though they were comprehensively outplayed by a far superior and more exciting Spanish side. That's cost me a tenner, plus winnings, alone.

And, had they managed to raise their game for the match, even enough to take the game to penalties, I'd have been the outright winner in our office Dream Team competition, trousering £40. Instead, I have to share the prize and go home with only £15.

My financial grumbles aside, I think the better side won on the night, although I think I'd have preferred to see Marco van Basten's swashbuckling Dutch side win the trophy.

But now that Spain have cast off their "perennial underachievers" tag, only one side in European, and indeed world, football can truly claim that mantle as their own.

Let's hope that Don Capello can't do anything to fix that.

Evil

I've seen a lot of pretty disgusting things in my time - a 15-year-old Thai girl, heavily pregnant with her second child, butchering a dog for that night's dinner.

A restuarant described by a tour guide as "the best in Vietnam" crawling with cockroaches.

The carcass of a dead and trampled mouse found underneath a rug after several months lying undiscovered.

A Chinese woman skinning a basket of live frogs.

But today, as I walked from the train station to my office, I was met by the sight of something that I wasn't really prepared for at that time of the morning...

...a massive seagull tucking into a hearty breakfast of dead pigeon.

I'm presuming that the pigeon had been hit by a car, and not that the seagull had hunted its fellow bird down.

However it came upon its meal, the seagull seemed to be making the most of its good fortune, sqwuaking merrily as it ripped into the chest cavity, feathers flying everywhere.

I've said before that I have a phobia of birds, and one less pigeon is a victory for the forces of good in this world.

But being confronted by a seagull dismembering a pigeon on the pavement at 7.45am?

It's almost enough to put me off my Sugarpuffs.

Calf Licks

This probably seemed like a good idea at the time....

In Action

I've been a bit lax in contributing to the Blogosphere over the past few days (weeks...months...), but my excuse since Saturday comes in the form of my first game of 11-a-side football in a few years, something I mentioned recently.

Though I drag my sorry carcass around the five-a-side pitches of Aberdeen twice a week, it's been a few years since I donned the boots and thumped around a proper grass pitch.

Well, that changed on Saturday when a team formed from the male employees of my company took on a former employee and his old school friends.

There was a fair gulf in class - the opposition counted amongst their number several players who play at amateur and junior level, while our side included one or two players who had never played in a full-size football match before.

Unsurprisingly, we were beaten, and unsurprisingly the defeat was fairly comprehensive, finishing 7-1 to the younger, fitter side.

But we gave a good account of ourselves and in truth the scoreline wasn't a fair reflection of the match, especially as our first-choice goalkeeper was injured making a penalty save in the 15th minute.

Lest anyone doubt my abilities as a combative striker, here I am in full flight, the massed ranks of the opposition attempting to prevent me scoring (an objective they succeeded in achieving....)

(Photograph courtesy of Cedric Raguenaud)

Mr Henderson

Of all the funny things that I saw, heard, read and ate in China (yes, ate: tofu, good God....) the funniest of them all involved no Chinese people, no Chinglish and no chopstick-related mayhem.

It is a curious fact that that funniest thing that happened to me in China involved Mrs Wife and an orang-utang.

Ever since our lives became entwined, it has been a strange custom of ours to visit, when possible, the zoo for her birthday.

As Mrs Wife turned 28 during our Shanghai sojourn, we decided to take a trip out the city's zoo. Truthfully, we weren't sure what to expect - we'd heard rumours that the quality of the enclosures might be someway short of that found in the west, and that we should prepare for the worst.

But in truth, the standards weren't too bad - perhaps not as high as would be expected in Edinburgh or London, but certainly of sufficient size that the animals could move around freely and explore the confines of their cages.

By far the worst aspect of the zoo was the Chinese customers, who ignored the rules forbidding the feeding of animals and merrily threw sweeties in wrappers to bears and attempted to attract the attentions of a red panda with a sandwich.

The zoo is massive, and walking around in the scorching sun was tiring. But, as the end of the day approached, it began to seem as though we had the park to ourselves, most of the Chinese having departed.

And it was near closing time that we found the primates. As ever, the gorillas and chimpanzees were highly entertaining, given how closely related they are to ourselves.

Having spent a good few minutes watching our near cousins, Mrs Wife and I arrived in the deserted orang-utang building, where two of the apes were separated by a wall that split the enclosure.

As Mrs Wife watched the comic antics of a young orang-utang, I wandered to the other side of the enclosure, where I found myself face-to-face with a six-foot plus male.

I don't think I've ever been that close to a fully-grown male orang-utang before, and I expressed my surprise by shouting to Mrs Wife: "Come and see, it's a yeti."

Mrs Wife duly obliged, and spent several minutes in silent awe as the creature checked us out, swung around on a tyre and then climbed a rope.

Finally, the silence was broken when Mrs Wife said: "I don't think I've ever seen a yeti before."

Trolleyed

This week, I'll be playing in three football matches in the space of four days, including my first 90-minute, 11-a-side match in several years.

The last time I even donned the football boots was back when Mrs Wife and I were living in Argyll, and I was training with the local amateur football team.

I'd decided that the world wasn't complete without me showcasing my magnificent footballing abilities on the pitches of Scotland's west coast, but I was scandalously short of fitness.

So I threw myself wholeheartedly into the club's pre-season training campaign.

Until, a couple of weeks in, I suffered one of the worst injuries I've ever received.

Bizarrely, this incident didn't occur on the football pitch, but on the aisles of a supermarket.

It was the weekend of T In The Park 2005, and I had arranged to meet Baby Brother so that we could travel home together to get ready for the festival.

Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in that Baby Brother is an organisational nightmare, and it was after midnight that we finally left Glasgow.

I hadn't eaten, and hadn't bought any food for T In The Park, so I persuaded Baby Brother to stop at the 24-hour Tesco on Dundee's Kingsway.

For those who aren't aware, this branch of the supermarket is roughly the size of Wales. The aisles must be half a mile long. And at 2am on a Friday morning, they were deserted.

And so it came to pass that I rounded the corner with my trolley, and saw a vast expanse of empty aisle in front of me.

The opportunity was too good to resist. Pushing the trolley in front of me, I ran at full tilt down the aisle, until I determined that I'd picked up enough speed to go from trolley driver to trolley passenger.

I should probably explain now that the trolley wasn't a full-size effort with a seat for a small child and enough space inside for a large television set - it was a flat bed one designed for the shopper who needs a grocery receptacle bigger than a basket but smaller than a wheelbarrow.

But I digress. Running along this deserted supermarket aisle at 2am, I hopped on the back of the trolley.

The physics of the situation are simple - 14 stone suddenly hopping on the back of a flimsy trolley at 10 miles an hour doesn't work. The trolley shot out from beneath me and went skidding across the shop floor. I was left to slide along the aisle on my face. Unfortunately, my right foot caught on the floor. My leg, suddenly stretched between my sliding body and my stationary foot, pinged.

There is no cool, calm and collected way to pick yourself up off the floor of a supermarket at 2am when you've got a pulled hamstring. Nor is there a subtle way of picking up and refilling your trolley, or of completing your shopping with an all-too-obvious limp.

As far as I'm aware, no-one saw my mishap. But I'm still dreading the day that I appear on You've Been Framed, my fall from grace (and trolley) having been captured on CCTV and preserved for posterity.

Groanin' Jock's Chinglish Adventures Volume III: Buried With The Died Wifeless Man

The third installment of the series that may never end takes us to the Chinese Sex Museum.

Yep, that's right, the Chinese Sex Museum. A collection of art, artefacts and hideous devices detailing the history of sex and sex culture in the world's oldest culture.

Included in the exhibition were countless phallic pieces of pottery, statues of men naked and erect and even an awful punishment device for cheating women that took the form of a saddle that you attached to a donkey that had a massive wooden penis attached to it - it's pretty much indescribable.....

Anyway, the image above is from a caption referring to a jade statue. And obviously it was used for buried with the died wifeless man.

Because every died wifeless man needs a jade statue of a woman to remind him that, not only did he not get any when he was alive, he's sure as hell not getting any now he's dead.

Croaked It

I've spent most of my life in Scotland, and as a result, I'm always keen to see a new part of the planet - broadening the mind, I think it's called.

Mrs Wife and I have trekked through the jungles of northern Thailand; stood halfway up what, at that time, was the world's tallest building and looked out onto the minarets of Kuala Lumpur and onwards to the haze-shrouded hills on the horizon; snorkelled at the Great Barrier Reef; swum in the warm Pacific waters around Fiji; and drunk cheap Mexican beer in a Hollywood garden until the early hours of the morning.

But despite all our previous globe-trotting, there were some things we encountered in Shanghai that we've never seen anywhere else.

For example, on a day trip to Qibao, we spent an hour or so wandering the tightly-packed streets, where we were told we were experiencing "real China".

Many of the shops on these streets were traditional Chinese eateries, where passers-by can grab a quick snack as they head onwards towards their next engagement.

And the food on offer was a tad different to that found in your average greasy spoon cafe.

We saw whole birds impaled on skewers and deep fried, beak, eyes and all. Meats of in an arresting array of unusual colours that we didn't even want to know what animal had met its maker during the butchering process.

Most alarmingly of all (and something that still gives Mrs Wife a severe case of the heebie-jeebies) was a woman sitting on a doorstep skinning a bucket of live frogs and transferring them to a second bucket. The second bucket was a writhing mass of slithering, blood-soaked limbs.

Eating habits aside, the Chinese have an attiutude to many things that, to western eyes, seems strange.

Public spitting and urination is taken for granted. Infants don't wear nappies, but instead have trousers with big holes at the rear. When the child shows signs of needing to relieve itself, it is dangled over the nearest bush/gutter/river and left to get on with things.

Personal space doesn't exist. In a country of 1.3 billion people, perhaps that's understandable. But in the street, people in cars, on motorbikes or on bicycles will cut across your path without warning. On the pavements, pedestrians will do the same, walking diagonally in front of you so that you need to check your pace or stop suddenly to avoid banging into them.

In short, China can, for the first few days, be an infuriating place to visit. But, once you've adjusted to the pace of life in one of the world's most crowded and chaotic cities, it's easier to adapt to the rhythm - knowing that cars don't always stop at red lights, that Chinese people have no interest in anything that is happening directly behind them and that if you really want to buy something in the "fakes" markets, pick a price you'd be willing to pay and stick to it.

Just watch out for the woman with the bucket of skinned frogs.

Smokin'

I should really be posting more about Shanghai (or at the very least about the European Championships), but instead I feel the need to mention that in the space of five minutes today, I saw two men smoking pipes.

It seems a curious addition to the wardrobe, but there's no accessory quite like a pipe. The first gentleman I saw was honking on his in a determined fashion, puffing great clouds of soot and smoke into the faces of half of Union Street's shoppers. That he was wearing an arresting red tartan jacket, green cords and blue shoes simply added to his style.

The second piper (pipee?) seemed to be using his huge black smoking apparatus as a smoke-powered engine for climbing the steep brae at Market Street - sooking in a big lungful of burning bush before each step.

Both of these men looked to be at least in their seventies, which got me pondering - do young folk smoke pipes?

I don't think I've ever seen a pipe smoked by someone who doesn't also carry a bus pass while wearing a bunnet.

Maybe I should invest in one - it would go perfectly with my wardrobe of cheap Tesco suits and fake clothes from China.

Groanin' Jock's Chinglish Adventures Volume II: Yellow Old Man Of May

Continuing the series that no-one's waiting for, here's my second Chinglish discovery.

This headline appeared in a magazine in which the headlines were thoughtfully translated into English, but the remainder of the text appeared in Chinese script.

Perhaps this is a way of teaching Chinese readers English; if so, I think it probably falls someway short of the mark.

Can anyone shed some light on what "Yellow Old Man of May Daughter Scissors Hand" might mean?

Art Of Noise

The first thing that struck me when I stepped on Chinese soil for the first time was how quiet it was.

Given that the population of Shanghai is estimated at between 16 million and 25 million people, this may seem a strange admission, but there's a reason for it.

In a piece of bureaucratic genius, all Chinese people take their holidays at exactly the same time.

Which means that, when the holidays arrive, 1.3 billion people take to the roads, rails and skies and trample merrily across their vast country in seek of a break from their day-to-day lives.

It also means, as our host Paul pointed out, that all Chinese transport hubs need to be 10 times the size they would be if the government-approved holidays didn't exist.

And so it was that Mrs Wife and I arrived at Shanghai's new(ish) Pudong airport, where it seemed that our flight was the only one that was arriving or departing.

The baggage reclaim hall was eerily quiet. The queues for immigration control were minimal and efficient in a "why are you coming to China?" way.

But, having cleared customs, we were given our first taste of real Shanghai.

Firstly, the heat blasted through the open doors of the terminal building. I've been in hotter places in the past, but not for a while. I shouldn't need to point out the climatic differences between Aberdeen and southern China.

But a much stronger force hit us as we walked out into the arrivals hall - the racket generated by any group of Chinese people.

From my observations, I think the Chinese may be the loudest nation on Earth. If something can be done, it seems that the Chinese ethos is that it should be done as noisily as possible. If a car has a horn, lean on it while you drive. If your scooter sounds louder if you rev the engine harder, make sure you rev it to its limits, preferably while blasting away on your horn as well.

And this mentality extends to all walks of life. If you're meeting someone at the airport, shout at them from the moment you see them. If everyone else is shouting as well, just shout louder - you'll win eventually.

I'd been to crowded cities before we visited Shanghai, amongst them Hanoi, Bangkok, Singapore, Sydney, Los Angeles, New York and London. None of them are even in the same league as Shanghai.

As I've already said, China is a nation of 1.3 billion people. And wherever you go, it feels like half of them are there with you.

Get on the bus, and you'll be lucky to get a seat (even luckier if someone moves out of your way so that you can sit on the empty seat beside them). Attempt to take the subway and, if it's a busy period (ie between 6am and 9pm), you'll be squeezed against three Chinese guys, all of them fiddling with their PSPs, all with the volume turned up full, all playing different games.

Visit a restaurant, whether a traditional Chinese eatery or a KFC or McDonalds, and you'll fight through a scrum of hungry punters, then find yourself seated next to a party of eight playing drinking games at the top of their voices.

Frankly, Shanghai is bedlam. Practically everywhere you go in the city centre, someone is attempting to sell you something, whether a "long kite", a fake rolex or pirate DVDs.

But despite the madness, it's a place with its own charms - from the futuristic Pudong skyline to the relaxed charms of the French Concession and the good-humoured banter of the antiques market in the Old Town.

There are plenty more tales to come from our Shanghai experience - stop me if I'm boring you....

Groanin' Jock's Chinglish Adventures Volume I: You're Polite People

Well, we're home, and thoroughly exhausted by the combination of walking around one of the world's biggest, noisiest, dustiest, smoggiest cities, not to mention the jetlag and the fact that I was back in work at a time scandalously close to the arse crack of dawn yesterday.

Given that this is my "I'm home" post, I don't want to go into too much detail on what happened in China, but I'll come back to it in the fullness of time.

Instead, I'll firstly thank the wonderful guest posters who have filled the empty pages here at Dungroanin' during my absence - Misssy M, Erica, The Tomahawk Kid and Rachel - all of whom have done a far better job than me of being witty, entertaining and articulate.

And I'll also begin a brand new series right here, right now: Groanin' Jock's Chinglish Adventures.

Chinglish is a curious language that exists only in China. This peculiar written language tends to occur in places where Chinese directions or instructions have been translated into English in a less than coherent manner. And in Shanghai, they can be found everywhere - on street signs, in museums, in the printed media and on people's clothes.

This first one is from a street sign at a pedestrian crossing in central Shaghai.

The Eleventh Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

Hello. The Tomahawk Kid here again. Whilst Jock is off getting himself a bargain replacement for his Magic Tunes Box I thought I would keep the lyrical challenge series going.

Well done to oestrebunny for correctly identifying two of the tracks from the Tenth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge.

Answers to the tenth challenge are now in the comments on that post. Here are this week's mystery lyrics, let's see if these are easier or harder than normal.

To play, simply identify the songs from the lines given. No Googling.

1: You can't see that I'm just the same as the stupid people who you hate

2: Oh yes I noticed you, you are a friend of mine

3: Tried to please her, she only played one night stands

4: I don't even know what tomorrow will bring, let me tell ya, having no future is a terrible thing

5: I remember better days, lace in every window, and roses 'round the gate

Bon chance.

TTK

Getting older by the day

It's funny how age can creep up on you when you least expect it, isn't it? I have been coasting along in the ignorant denial that I am closer to 18 than to 30 and it's come as a bit of a shock to me to realise that life is not what it used to be.

Let me introduce myself. I am Rachel, and a friend of Jock's from our time as journalism students in Edinburgh. Our first meeting was Day Two of 'Fresher's Week' which for those outside the UK I shall explain briefly. Your first week as a wide-eyed student at university is spent settling into your Halls of Residence, on the phone to frantic parents assuring them you are eating and washing without reminders, registering for your course, getting lost in a new city, neogitating unfamiliar public transport systems, registering with doctors, calling gas companies to set up bill payments - you know, that sort of thing. Is it though? Is it really? can any of us actually remember doing all those things? No. No we can't as that first week in new territory is spent in the constant quest of getting as drunk as possible with your new 'mates' (most of whom glanced at you once in your shared Halls and you have clung to them ever since) for as little money as possible, and surviving on the bare minimum of sleep. This was a hoot, a challenge we all relished and one that presented no problems whatsoever. The war cry of 'Oh my God! I threw up in that club last night!' is met with 'do you want to go for a pint' and the response was always favourable...

So it comes with grim realisation a mere ten years later that even one day's drinking can ruin the good intentions of man. Last week, I had decided to go for a couple of post-work refreshments with some friends. We staggered from the bar two hours later, having probably only had three glasses of wine, but lunged off in our seperate directions squealing about our love for each other and Raef from The Apprentice. The very next morning was a disaster. I awoke with a thumping head, a sweaty back and my eyes glued shut with last night's mascara. The room was spinning and my legs could barely support the weight of my uncoordinated body. My arms flapped at my sides and the task of getting changed and ready for work reduced me to tears. I had one objective that day and it was to attend a meeting in the afternoon. I failed. That was the moment. How could I, ten years ago, carry out all the necessary tasks of the day and still have the energy for a night out? How far I have fallen, into the pits of late-twenties hangovers, where each feels like another light has gone out in my brain? What will happen with I am 38? 48? I shudder at the thought.

Nosin' Around

Hmmmm, Jock said he was nipping out for something to eat. At least that's what I think he said...

Sorry, should introduce myself. I'm The Tomahawk Kid and I thought I would have a quick nosey round Dungroanin' and see what I could find......but it looks like someone beat me to it.

The drinks cabinet is empty, so is the biscuit tin, and the old sofa Jock keeps in the porch looks like it has been used as a trampoline by a passing rugby team!

Very strange...

Had he been here, Jock would no doubt have posted his thoughts on the footie this week.

First we had a thoroughly enthralling Champions League final between Manchester United and Chelsea that went all the way to sudden death penalties before United eventually emerged victorious. Glorious stuff and gripping television. I think that Man Utd probably deserved the win following their first half performance but credit to Chelsea for coming back strongly and bossing the second half.

Last night saw Rangers and Celtic vying to win the SPL championship. Both teams were level on points but Rangers were behind on goal difference and were looking to score heavily against Aberdeen whilst hoping that Dundee United would do something against the 'Tic.

Sadly for Rangers (not), Aberdeen once again raised their game and handed out a solid 2-0 beating whilst down the road Celtic just edged past The Arabs.

Funniest moment of the night was when with only 5 minutes left to play the Aberdeen fans started singing en masse to the Rangers fans "Why the f*ck are you still here?"

Whilst I go and find someplace to secrete an Arbroath Smokie, so that the place is nice and fragrant for Jock's return, I will leave you with a hilarious clip of a TV presenter totally losing it..

TTFN

TTK

p.s. What are all these copies of "The Celtic View" doing hidden under the bed?

Music, Sweet Music, I Wish I Could Caress

Well, hi peeps. I’m Erica, and I’ll just come right out and say it: I am a very, very, very bad guest poster, who has been absolutely yanking her hair out from their follicular roots, trying to figure out what to write while Mark is yukking it up with Mrs. Wife in Shanghai.

Anyhow, I was sitting here at my job thinking to myself, “I really gotta put a post up — but what??,” even though, to channel Langston Hughes, my own blog is beginning to “crust and sugar over — like a syrupy sweet,” but still…no excuses. I need to figure out what to write.

And then, it came to me.

Mark — who I was “introduced” to by Eric, and who is also a fellow newspaper peep (I work for a chain of local weeklies here in Brooklyn, USA) — has the unusual distinction of being only one of two or three other bloggers on my blogroll who are younger than me, and a fine blogger he is, and yet, we both count ourselves among the throngs of young music listeners around the world who deem The Fab Four a favorite music group.

I refer not, of course, to Pete, Roger, John and Keith, the respective members of The Who, my favorite group growing up, nor John and Michelle Phillips, Denny Doherty, and Cass Elliot of The Mamas and the Papas (I have it on good authority that John Phillips was a total dooshbag), but rather I speak of John, Paul, George and Ringo, The Beatles.

And so, sitting here on a rainy deadline day, banging out my myriad mess of photo captions and press announcements for our Southern Brooklyn papers, and trying to keep my sleepyhead from inadvertently slamming down onto the keyboard with a mighty thwack, I try to get through it all by listening to Pandora Radio, “an automated music recommendation and Internet radio service created by the Music Genome Project.”

The entry continues (this figures prominently in my tale): “Users enter a song or artist that they enjoy, and the service responds by playing selections that are musically similar. Users provide feedback on the individual song choices — approval or disapproval — which Pandora takes into account for future selections.”

So say, even if I enter, as an example, “Franz Josef Haydn” into the search box, Pandora will probably play me some early Mozart symphony, and maybe even a little pre-Romantic Beethoven, which is musically somewhat reminiscent of Mozart.

But back to The Fab Four. After having gone on a somewhat lengthy hiatus from them, we’re talking years and years, suddenly I craved The Beatles, which I typed into the “create a new station” search box, and not only have I been able to satisfactorily scratch my niggling Beatles itch, with Pandora providing me with a plethora of awesome classic rock tunage, but I also got to hear lots of other “musically similar” songs, such as John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy,” Led Zeppelin’s “Bron-Y-Aur Stomp,” and a buncha stuff by The Hollies, a very cool band; this is one of my favorites from them, though the video is a mite creepy.

As I hinged nearer and nearer to a comatose state at work, barely able to focus, it occurred to me in a rather abrupt, yet lucid, moment, that of all the Beatles songs Pandora has gifted me with over the past few weeks, including “A Day In The Life,” “Golden Slumbers / Carry That Weight” (the first song[s] I ever got stoned to, back when that was a thing I used to do), and “Paperback Writer,” the one song I have not yet heard — the Holy Grail of Beatles love songs, the modest little ditty which somehow slipped through the cracks of being queued amongst the mélange of other classic rock tunes — was “In My Life.”

WTF? How can such a travesty even be?

I know what you’re thinking: “Geeeeeez, so what?? Get to the friggin’ point already!!” And I will, no need to be tetchy, but anyways, here’s the point to my loooong story, which I thought was really weird and kind of even a little magical: The minute I thought to myself, while listening to “Wild Horses” by The Stones, “Why don’t they ever play ‘In My Life?,’ right after “Wild Horses” ended, guess what song came on? I scheisse youse not.

And since I’m the only person who could A) hear my inner thoughts, and B) hear what’s playing on my headphones, although I am told by coworkers to turn the volume down every once in a while, especially when AC/DC (another of Mark’s faves) or Metallica comes on, I couldn’t exactly SHARE my special private moment with anybody else in the room, ya dig? I mean, yes…technically, I could have, but I could have just as easily made the whole thing up, even though, honest injun I didn’t, but also…would anyone really have cared?

Probably not.

Yannow what, though? I never met Mark, but I have met the aforelinkedto Eric, and they two are good buds (I’m sure the AC/DC video Eric posted, right after he came back from Scotland, had somewhat to do with his falling under Mark’s influence), and one thing us thirty-somethings have in common (wait, Mark…are you even 30 yet? Or did you just turn 29?) is that we take our music very seriously, and I just know Mark would have cared.

And that, children, is only part of why I am a loyal reader of Groanin’ Jock. The other reason being, I just fancy the way the guy looks in a kilt.

Housesitting at Dungroanin'

Hello all fans of Groaning Jock.

Jock has kindly left me the keys to his butt 'n' ben over the next couple of weeks. Something about humanitarian aid to China... Anyway, I'm Misssy from The Misssy Martin Misssives. And while look under the bed for porn and check out if he's left any decent biscuits in the biscuit tin, I thought I'd start off with something that I think is typical Jock fayre.

Some very clever people over at Mensa have complied a list of new words, for a laugh. The game is you take a dictionary word, and alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition..

Here are some of the best ones:

1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly

3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

4. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

6. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

7. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

8. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

9. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

After reading these, I started to think of some of my own but I wanted to have a go at doing some that are all about this thing we do called blogging.

A Brog: A blog that it is so full of one’s own importance that it may well be considered as bragging. See most celebrity blogs for examples.

Stattering: Clicking on your stats so much that it becomes an affliction.

Going postal: Ever just written the best blog post ever and Blogger posts an error message as you click “Publish”. Well the hysterical acts of violence to your computer as a consequence are known as “going postal”

Schlurking: Not commenting on someone’s blog cos you are a pussy and frightened of the human interaction that might ensue.

Cummenting: What the readers of sex blogs do.

If you can think of any more (they don't have to be blog related) then you know where the comments box is...

See you in a couple of days after I've drained all Jock's booze cabinet.